Broad Strokes
by makesometime
Summary: Painting of the outside of the units becomes almost like a celebration. Pre-series.


A/N: Thank you to all my girls for their invaluable help on this x

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><p>The building materials finally come through with the Second Pilgrimage and she has never been happier to see anything in her entire life, not even the ceiling of the field hospital after waking up from the surgery that saved her life.<p>

Nathaniel's housing unit is the first to go up, both an indication of his importance and a necessity now that he has a dependent with him (Guzman's daughter is due out on the next pilgrimage and Alicia more than once catches him looking enviously at the father and son during construction). Even she can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy the first night the Taylors step inside and close the door, leaving the rest of them under canvas as before.

She's there as Nathaniel's second, his most trusted friend. She figures that's worth at least an _offer_ of sharing the unit, of getting out of the unpleasant heat and dampness of a jungle evening but it doesn't come and she tries not to be disappointed. After all, she's been through worse. Far worse. She's spent nights without any cover whatsoever, nights being tortured by enemy hands, nights left for dead. She can spend a few more in a tent.

But the disappointment and jealousy don't pass. They linger, fester in her gut. She starts snapping at Nathaniel, glaring at Lucas when the young man is only trying to be nice (even though there's something there – something in his eyes – something she doesn't trust and if she were more in her right mind she'd probably be able to place it but instead it remains annoyingly out of reach).

One night, a week or so later, Nathaniel invites everyone into the unit for a drink (_about time_ her anger supplies) but she declines, offering to take first watch. She sees the hurt in his eyes, ignores it, stalks off to the perimeter to walk and clear her head. She ends up in the shell of the barracks, the place she'd be living if she weren't in such a favoured position and wonders if maybe it would be for the best.

She doesn't like the person she's turning into – a jealous, petty, materialistic version of herself. She's not even sure she deserves her own quarters, sparse as they will be for some time. The worst thing is she can't even put her finger on _why _she feels the way she does. It can't be something as silly as jealousy, envy. There's no reason to feel anything but overjoyed that Nathaniel asked her to join him here.

And there's the kicker, she supposes. Nathaniel. Since the arrival of the Second, she can count on both hands the number of meaningful conversations she's had with him. She... _misses _him. For so long, for the first few months in Terra Nova – hell, even leading up to them coming here – it had been the two of them. Planning, hoping, dreaming. And now Lucas has stepped into her place. She shouldn't feel shunted. She should recognise his need to be close to his son, to cherish the only piece of Ayani he has left.

But... she _hurts_.

She's exhausted herself with the thoughts whirling around her brain when Guz relieves her for the night, and she crawls into her tent, falling into a dreamless sleep.

#

Alicia finds her name absent from the crew list for working on the barracks the next morning – it's a puzzle, but nothing she's exactly going to argue over. The work is backbreaking and a rest would be welcome, at least for one day – so she decides to use her spare hours to put in a little extra time on her own quarters.

She isn't as surprised as she would expect to be to find Nathaniel already there, tools in hand, fixing joists into place. It's what he would have done, a few months ago, without question. To see him back, willingly sharing her space... it helps sooth a part of her that has been in need of care for too long now. She allows herself all of a second to admire his form as he works in the early morning sun before picking up her own tools and joining him.

He smiles hesitantly at her and she returns it freely, seeing a metaphorical weight seemingly lift off of him at the gesture. For a moment her subconscious prompts her that she should feel worse about her changeable moods but damn it all, her heart feels lighter than it has in weeks when his smile broadens to a grin and he asks her to pass him a wrench.

Together they bolt most of the internal walls of her quarters up, the rest of the team stop by after lunch to help with the roof and by sundown she has a mostly complete housing unit and a sense of unexpected bone-deep satisfaction.

At the end of the night, when Nathaniel and Lucas retire to their now-furnished quarters, she steps inside hers for the first time. She's missing most of the major appliances (they're still in the storage containers, a job for later on in the week) and has only one table and a candle for light. But there's a bed – a proper bed, the first thing Nathaniel had insisted they put inside (his consideration of her comfort takes her already lightened heart and wraps it in fuzzy cotton wool).

She stands and watches it for a few minutes, almost as if she expects it to disappear. When it doesn't – when her entire existence doesn't crash down around her like some cruel illusion just because she allows herself to contemplate living like a civilised human being again – she changes into the pyjamas she kept clean, especially for this moment, and snuggles down under the covers. She feels a little odd, a little discomforted at first. But then her wired mind relaxes and she feels herself slipping off, warm, safe and _happy_. Truly happy.

#

Painting of the outside of the units becomes almost like a celebration. It's the last thing they let themselves do, a symbolic signing-off on the new properties, an indication to the world around them that they are here and they are _staying_.

She helped Nathaniel and Lucas with their unit, so it's only fair they return the favour. She can't bring herself to be too disappointed when just the elder Taylor turns up at her door the morning of the scheduled painting – making his son's excuses. Lucas had apparently wanted to spend some time with the younger soldiers, people his own age. She finds this as odd as she finds it unlikely, but doesn't comment.

She and Nathaniel spend hours out under the blazing sun without even noticing the progress of time. She's down to her tank and a pair of shorts; Nathaniel has long since removed his shirt, and she is not staring. No she is not.

So she definitely hasn't catalogued the exact pattern of paint droplets over his chest and arms, collected from slightly-malfunctioning paint guns.

Nor has she counted the freckles on his shoulders.

And because she isn't staring she doesn't notice, not at all, the way he isn't staring at her either. Not at all.

As is slightly inevitable, their eyes meet during one of their 'not-staring' moments and he smiles, laughs and shakes his head.

"What?" She asks, smiling a little herself as she carefully applies paint to the back wall of her quarters.

"Nothing." He says, a little too quickly. "Just, I'm not used to seeing you look so happy. Content. Been too long, Wash."

Her smile turns a little confused. "I've always been happy sir."

Taylor sighs, dropping his paint gun from the wall and turning to her. "Not content though. And I know that's partly my fault - I've been so happy to have Lucas here that I've been neglecting everyone else."

"No, sir–." The rebuttal is immediate, practised and immediately cut off by him stepping closer to her.

"No, I have. I love my son but I've been overlooking people who are just as important to me."

Alicia is instantly very aware of his presence, his proximity, it sends a wave of heat through her that has absolutely nothing to do with the sun. It's inconvenient, spectacularly so, but not unwelcome. "People?" She questions.

Nathaniel just nods, moving ever closer. The warmth growing in her to extremely pleasurable levels. Then, all of a sudden she feels a wetness on her chest; a strange sensation, unexpected. She looks down to see a streak of dark paint across her skin and gasps. "Yeah, like Guz." Nathaniel teases.

She narrows her eyes at him, raising her own gun behind her back quietly. "Is that so?"

"It is." He practically beams at her.

"Guz, huh?" She asks, taking one step nearer to him, until she has to tip her head back to look up at him.

"He's a dear friend." Nathaniel says, faux contriteness covering his features.

She nods slowly, pretending to understand. She raises up onto her tiptoes, bringing her eyes onto a line with his; sees them darkened, amused, affectionate. "Just Guz?" She asks, purposely allowing her breath to ghost against the skin just to the side of his mouth.

He turns his head a little so that his lips would brush hers if either of them closed the gap. "I suppose there might be others."

She smiles, locking her brown eyes onto his blue, acts as if she's going to press forward, join their lips, be the one to give in. Instead her hand shoots out from behind her back and allows the gun to paint a broad streak down his left arm.

He looks so surprised – clearly expecting something very different from her – that she nearly splits her sides laughing harder than she has in weeks. It's her momentary distraction in turning from him that allows him to retaliate, sneaking a long stripe down her back. She laughs even harder at this, drawing chuckles from him as she strips off her top – leaving a streak across her lower back and one along her shoulders between the straps of her sports bra.

"You realise of course, that this means war?" She asks, holding the gun teasingly from one hand.

"Wouldn't expect anything less, Wash."

It's a massive waste of paint, of valuable resources. They end up with less paint on themselves (where it really doesn't belong) or her quarters (where it really does) than on the surrounding vegetation.

But it's also the most fun either of them have had in months.

It ends when Nathaniel manages to hook a leg around Alicia's, sending her stumbling into the wall of her quarters. She collapses back against the mostly-dry paint as he advances on her with a wicked grin, gun outstretched. She's prepared for the cool hit before it comes but it still makes her jump when he gets her square in the stomach with a blast from the gun at short range.

"Yield?" He asks, holding the gun teasingly against her temple.

"Convince me." She breathes, moving her own gun to press against his stomach.

Alicia watches as he grins. "Convince you?"

She nods mutely and in response he steps forward, closing the gap between their bodies, forcing the butt of her gun into her own stomach. His tongue sneaks out to wet his lower lip and, almost without thought, her eyes drop to watch the progress. She sees the corner of his mouth quirk, wants to curse herself for being so transparent; right up until his tongue emerges again, this time to run along his upper lip. His hand tightens on the paint gun and she can't help put notice the way it makes his bicep bulge, is torn between continuing to watch his mouth and switching her attention to her favourite part of him.

She doesn't realise until it's too late that he's successfully distracted her. Her grip on her own gun has slackened until it hangs limply between them. He bats it away, allowing it to fall to the ground beside them and she looks back up at his face as he grins slowly at her. "Come on Wash, make it a little difficult."

Alicia wants to retort, push him away, make him stop looking so goddamn proud of himself. But he brings the gun down slowly, over her cheek and down the length of her neck. It shouldn't feel as good as it does, hard plastic against her skin, but he moves it so feather-light over her as his gaze steadily holds her own that she has to repress a shudder. He brings his other hand up and twists the dial on the side of the gun.

She opens her mouth to speak, to question, but is silenced before she can say anything by his eyes alone. The hand that did something to the gun comes to rest beside her head against the wall and he leans in a little more. "Close your eyes, Wash." He whispers.

She knows she should feel more than a blooming of instant trust in her chest (her still heaving chest, which Nathaniel's eyes have strayed to more than once) but her eyes fall closed almost instantly. There's silence for a moment before she feels it, the wetness returning to her skin. It's lighter this time, almost teasing. A much smaller jet is hitting her as Nathaniel brings the gun down over her chest, painting odd patterns lazily across the areas exposed by her lack of clothing.

It's abundantly clear to her very quickly why he told her to close her eyes. He knows she's not likely to find the actual process much of a turn on but the _sensations_, oh those are fantastic. He brings the gun down between her breasts to her stomach, paints swirling loops over her. She thinks somewhere in there she feels an 'N' pass across her skin and this time she does shudder, the feeling of him marking her – claiming her – sending her reeling.

"Convincing enough?" He asks, breath hitting a spot under her ear that makes her gasp, arch her back. He steps away before her skin can contact his and she cracks her eyes open to glare. "Now now, lieutenant. That scowl doesn't go with all my hard work."

She looks down to find her suspicions correct – she looks a mess, lines of dark paint over her tanned skin, her stomach almost completely covered with no indication of the patterning Nathaniel had been intending. She slinks up to him, winds an arm around his neck and pulls herself close. Feels the layer of paint on her skin stick to his own torso like her body is one giant printing block. She brushes her mouth over his, not engaging even when his lips seek hers more fully.

Stepping back, Alicia allows herself a moment of amusement at his splotchy skin. "My turn." She says and with a wicked grin, swipes his feet out from underneath him; planting him flat on his back in the long grass.

In an instant she is straddling him, sitting on his thighs. His hands come to rest on her bare legs and the one that had braced him against the wall leaves behind a faint print of his hand; a mark of ownership that sends her skin tingling. She leans off of him to snag an unopened paint pot and places it beside his body, flipping the lid off and sticking her fingers inside.

"Wash?" He questions, more amused than anything else.

"I might not be as artistic as you, sir, but I have the basics." She says, coating the tips of her fingers carefully in paint. He goes to talk but she places a paint-free finger over his lips; groaning, just a little, when his tongue snakes out to lick the pad of her finger. "Don't interrupt a genius at work."

She starts off slowly, trailing one finger from the hollow of his throat, down the middle of his chest; along his sternum and crossing the smooth plain of his stomach to circle his navel. The same finger then traces the lines of the muscles on his stomach, his pecs – while her other hand rests as a heavy, controlling weight on his hip. She dips her fingers back in the paint to re-tread paths already taken, pressing harder against solid muscle and making his breathing hasten.

She sneaks looks up to his face. Sees his eyes steady on her, calculating, lustful. As she circles his navel for a second time she sees his eyes fall closed unbidden, decides to track her fingers lower, below his belly button and over the soft skin above his belt.

It's this that draws the first sound from him, a breathy moan accompanied by a buck of his hips that sends a bolt of heat to her core. She tightens the grip of her controlling hand, holding him still; settling him back into the ground. His eyes open to watch her once more, seeing as her fingers top up paint again. She squeezes with her thighs as her hand leaves his hip, letting him know she expects him not to take advantage of the situation.

He considers it, she can tell, but when her hand relocates to the button of his pants he appears to see the benefit in letting her have her way, for now. With his pants loosened she pushes them down a little, stopping when they catch on the top of the very obvious bulge that neither of them are ready to acknowledge. It exposes the lines of his hips, giving her a fresh canvas to work with. She runs a finger along the dips in his skin, painting them with dark strokes that emphasise the lean power of his form. It's oddly affecting, seeing his muscular strength picked out so clearly by her own hand – and she allows herself a moment to stare, transfixed.

"See something you like lieutenant?"

He sounds so cocky, so damnably smug that she feels an instant need to retaliate, takes her hand from his hip once more and pushes her palm hard against his length. He hisses out a breath, neck straining back and jaw clenching.

"Could ask you the same, sir?"

It's ridiculous but true that they find themselves in somewhat of a stalemate. She appears to have all the power, curling her fingers around him through the thick material of his fatigues. But she lacks the impetus, the confidence in his desire. She is uncertain after so many years of dreaming that he could want this, _need_ this, as desperately as she does.

What Nathaniel does need is power, always; hates when it's removed from him – though, she expects, the method of her control of him now is less difficult to bear. She is unwilling to give his power back openly (he doesn't need to know that he holds it even now, given her warring thoughts) until she knows he's not just taking advantage of the first woman to show this kind of interest in years.

She looks down at her paint-covered fingertips resting against his lower stomach, leaving four small circles where they rest. It's difficult to tear her eyes away from this, to look to his face and find confirmation or denial of her fears. He takes the decision away from her, sits up and places a hand under her chin to raise her eyes to his.

"I want this." He says quietly, reading her mind once more. "_You_." He clarifies, needlessly.

She smiles, relief flooding her and she surges forward to capture his lips at last. He lets out a sound somewhere between surprise and pleasure, arm coming around to hold her to him. His hand doesn't linger on her back, slips down into her shorts to cup her ass and squeeze, pulling her hips closer to his, trapping her hand between them.

She grins against his mouth, feeling oddly giddy now that she knows, truly, that this is going to happen. That her new life in paradise might, somehow, live up to expectations. The relaxation of her nervous energy makes her feel free, easy, languidly moving her mouth against his as he kneads the muscle of her backside. She squeezes her hand again which makes him nip at her lip, remove his hand to start pulling her bra over her head.

Lifting her arms for the bare minimum amount of time, she has her hands back at his belt before he can take advantage of their absence. She shifts back in his lap, and pulls his fatigues and underwear down with her (though he is loath to assist), leaving them bunched around his knees as she scoots forward again to press herself against him. He shifts, kicking the material down to his ankles with surprising composure as she rocks mercilessly against him, raining open-mouthed kisses and bites over his shoulders.

"Wash..." He groans. "You're overdressed, lieutenant."

Alicia brings her hands up to press against his chest. He resists, at first, but is forced to relent when she raises an eyebrow, leans forward to press her lips to his and use her weight to force him back to the ground. She hovers over him for a time, revelling in her freedom just to kiss him, enjoying the way her breasts feel against his own naked chest.

She's so content to kiss him, rub against him, rock her hips against his in the most satisfying rhythm possible that she doesn't even _consider_ he might attempt retribution. Doesn't sense the hand leaving the position it fell to on her thigh, doesn't notice it snaking over her stomach, flaking off drying paint until it reaches the button of her shorts and opens it with a flick of a wrist.

"Sir?" She mumbles, unable to make her mouth leave his.

"Wash?" He replies, making the effort for her by trailing his lips along her jaw.

"What are you doing?" She asks breathily as his hand slips inside her open zipper and over her warm skin.

He chuckles, sucking hard against the underside of her jaw. "If you have to ask that Wash..." He trails off, fingers dipping lower, seeking her heat and finding her more than ready for his exploratory advances. "I'm not doing it properly."

She gasps as his fingers rub over her clit, catching and teasing the bundle of nerves until the arms supporting her above him are shaking. "Don't think you need to worry sir."

He makes the most of her distraction, adjusting his weight to press up and shift her over onto her back, pressing his torso onto hers as he kneels beside her. All the while his hand remains in her shorts, sliding, teasing, making her writhe against his ministrations. He slowly retracts his hand and she lets out a cry of disappointment; even as his hands relocate to her waistband, pulling her shorts slowly down her legs.

She cranes her neck to look down at him as he kisses along each part of exposed skin, down over her hip, along her unmarked thigh as he inches her shorts down excruciatingly calmly. "Sir..." She says. "_Nathaniel_." She chances and his eyes flash with hungry fire. She tries not to look too triumphant as he whips the shorts down and off, pushing her knees open and coming to rest between them.

He fits against her perfectly and she nearly forgets her plan as she adjusts her legs to cradle his hips exquisitely. She allows one hand to reach out, snag the paint pot and tip it over onto her palm. The thick liquid spills out and she grins as it covers her skin, bringing her hand above her head and letting her other one meet it to spread paint between both palms. He quirks an eyebrow at her, thrusts his hips suggestively into hers and smirks a little when she doesn't even react (he doesn't need to know how much willpower that takes).

"Wash?"

She smiles innocently (as innocently as possible) at him. "Sir?"

"What are you doing?" He asks and she grins at the immediate reversal of their roles, back to where they were before. Exactly her intention.

His curious confusion is his undoing, his attention too stolen by her expressive face to notice the way she lowers her arms, moves her hands to cover each pectoral muscle and shove, hard. He falls to the side with amusing ease and she's straddling him once more, hovering over his straining length with all of the mental fortitude she has left. She can see the paint ooze around her fingers, creating two perfect handprints on his skin and can't help a burst of laughter.

"Proud of yourself, lieutenant?"

She lines up and sinks down on him, his hands coming to her hips to guide her movements. "Very proud, sir." She breathes when he's sheathed inside her completely and pauses to adjust to his size (she's glad to see her private fantasies weren't too generous).

He laughs until she squeezes around him and his head drops back down to the grass, fingers clenching hard on her skin, hard enough to leave marks that will long outlast the paint.

Pressing down hard on his chest she lifts her hips up, blissfully slowly. Before she can sink just as calmly his hands jerk her back down as he thrusts up and she throws her head back with a cry of delight as he growls low in his throat. She smiles down at him, head tilted questioningly as she raises up, digging her nails into his chest. He tugs her back down with another thrust and she moans at his rough treatment of her.

"Never was a patient man, Wash."

She closes her eyes, allows him to work them into a rhythm; she lifts, he pulls her back down; she clenches, he thrusts. "Surprised you let me get this far, sir." She says eventually, looking at him through hooded eyes.

He lifts his hips with particular harshness and flips her onto her back once more. Her hands leave his chest to rest on his ass as he plunges into her under his own control, hitching one of her legs high on his hip to reach ever deeper. He laughs when he sees her eyes transfixed by the claims she placed on him as he squeezes her thigh over the spot where his hand left a mark earlier. "All part of the plan."

She doesn't believe him and gives him a look that tells him as much but then he thrusts and hits a spot that makes stars dance in front of her eyes and any sense she might have had the chance to make is completely lost. It doesn't take long for her to fall apart after that moment, years of build-up were never going to do anything other than ease the way. But when she does break it's more than she ever dared dream, the scream ripped from her throat loud enough to rival some of the indigenous wildlife.

Nathaniel laughs, captures her lips briefly as his thrusts speed up, chasing his own orgasm. He brings his forehead to rest against her shoulder. Biting down on her collarbone he erupts within her, his shout of completion muffled.

As they catch their breath Wash runs her hands up and down his arms soothingly, flaking away bits of paint from where she had got him with her gun earlier.

"That's not how you do discreet, Wash." He chastises once he can speak again and she laughs while she smacks his shoulder, pushing him off until he collapses next to her.

She rolls over to rest her chin on his stomach, running fingers over her painted handprints. "Are we good, sir?"

He runs a hand over her head, tugging lightly at her resilient ponytail. "We're good, Wash." She guesses her relief must be obvious because he frowns a little and swipes his thumb over her cheekbone tenderly. "This will only go as far as you're comfortable."

She nods, chin rocking on his chest. "That's good. Because right now I think I'd be particularly comfortable with going to the shower."

He barks out a laugh, not expecting her words or her tone and she rises to her feet as he stands also, pulling up his trousers while she carelessly tugs on her clothes. They're only going into her unit, after all.

She has her hand outstretched, his long-abandoned t-shirt hanging from it, when they hear whistling and footsteps coming around her quarters. They both freeze comically as Guz rounds the corner and freezes also, the tune dying on his lips.

He looks between them, eyes taking in the print on her thigh, the prints on Nathaniel's chest, the general accumulation of paint everywhere _other _than the wall – and the fact that the wall itself is smudged beyond the telling of it. He's startlingly silent as he takes all this in, tucking his hands in the pockets of his fatigues.

"... Yeah, I don't want to know." He says, turning on his heel and marching back the way he came.

Alicia breaks first, laughter building within her until she can't contain it any longer and it spills as easily as it ever has from her. Nathaniel looks slightly less thrilled but is becalmed by her amusement and the way she takes his hand to lead him to her back door. "Come on old man." She drawls.

He snorts, hurrying to push her bodily through the door and towards the bathroom. "Old man? I'll give you 'old man'..."

#

_7 Years Later_

Jim Shannon has been working together with Wash for several months now. She pesters him constantly and he irritates the hell out of her; it's a great partnership built on a strong friendship that doesn't suffer from their near-constant snarking. But sometimes all it needs is a little outside help to ruin that...

The last of the new housing units is finally complete and Jim has been roped into painting it as an apology for putting an orange through the window of the new owners' old shared accommodation when playing catch with Zoe.

Naturally, he asks Wash to help. Jokingly, but hopefully. For some reason he doesn't quite understand, she instantly agrees.

Meeting him at the unit just after dawn patrol, they're in the middle of making plans when the Commander walks up behind Wash and holds a finger to his lips. Jim pretends he's not there until the older man decides to announce himself, just as Wash picks up a paint gun.

"You don't want her help Shannon, she'll make a hell of a mess."

Jim watches with undisguised glee as Wash glares sideways at Taylor, not dignifying his words with her full attention. "Oh, there's a story there."

Taylor simply shrugs. "Just a friendly warning."

Wash looks to be toying with speaking further but in the end her anger gets the better of her. "_I'll_ make a mess?"

Taylor is smugness personified to Jim as he loops his thumbs through his belt and rocks back on his heels. "That's what I said, yes."

"I seem to remember, _sir_, that you weren't exactly the height of cleanliness yourself!"

Taylor snorts. "But I'm not the one offering to help, Wash. Felt Shannon should have all the facts before setting you to work."

At the mention of the man the pair of them seem to recall his presence, turning to him in unison.

Jim beams, waving his hand encouragingly at the pair of them. "Oh no, don't mind me, carry on."

"Shannon..." Wash growls. "You want my help or not?"

"Sure you wouldn't rather paint this with the Commander?" Jim teases, not missing the way her eyes heat up with something that is definitely not anger. "You _would_! Come on, spill the story to your good friend Jim. I won't share!"

Taylor looks a little put-out now but it's Wash that now has his full attention as she advances slowly on him. "Should I run, sir?" Jim asks, backing up cautiously.

"I'd say that wasn't a bad plan, Shannon."

Jim has never been one to turn down a good plan. So he does. He runs. And _prays_ Wash isn't quicker than him.


End file.
